Hebrew School Donuts

On Sundays in Hebrew School throughout the year, the Cantor taught a group of us eleven- and twelve-year-olds about how to celebrate seasonal Jewish holidays. The class took place in a wing of the temple and the Cantor placed all the desks in a large circle so we could face each other.

I loved listening to the Cantor talk about his life on the run from the Nazis right after Kristallnacht, and how he settled in China with his family until the war had ended. But the holidays and their traditions were dry and boring. I had a hard time focusing over the three hours each Sunday. I wasn’t alone. It was a weekend after all, and the class took us away from T.V., sports, and extra sleep.

The Cantor cured our lack of attention by bringing in a box of donuts each week. The pink box with the start of a grease stain on the side sat waiting on the desk in the middle of the class circle of desks. The sweet smell of oil and sugar wafted out of the box as soon as it was opened. I sat impatiently watching the box at the start of the hour. I lived for that donut each week in class. My stepmom was virulently anti-sugar, and she employed a system of fear and punishment to control my behavior. If I was caught with so much as a chocolate bar or wrapper, that could result in being grounded for up to a week, with no T.V. or talking on the phone with friends.

The Cantor started out each lesson with a worksheet handout, the name of the holiday printed in Hebrew block letters. There would be artwork associated with the holiday. For Sukkot, there would be a lulav, the palm, myrtle and willow branches that are bound together and the etrog, a lemon-like citrus fruit. The lulav and etrog are held up together, to be shaken in each of the four corners of the sukkah, the sheltering hut, that is built for the holiday, a festival of happiness that lasts seven days over. For Hannukah, he’d picture a menorah, a dreidel, and pieces of gelt, chocolate to be won when spinning the dreidel.

After a half hour, he would let us all get up and pick out a donut. I would sidle up to the box quickly for a shot at my favorite chocolate or old-fashioned variety. Once we each had made our selections, we’d make our way back with our sugary treasure to our place in the circle, picking at it little by little or munching at it all at once. I always scarfed mine down quickly, unable to wait for the taste of sugar, the rush hitting me like a drug. Then it was gone.

Nicole was the one kid that always took her time eating. She was out to school the rest of us on willpower. Every week, no matter what, she slowly savored her donut. We remaining students were like a pack of dogs, ravishing the morsel of food we took, then sadly eyeing her while she ate her share daintily, picking at little bits of donut, listening to the Cantor’s stories and dabbing her mouth with her napkin. To make it worse, she would leave her donut sitting half eaten. Not even touching it. Taunting us. Even the slowest amongst us would finish ahead of Nicole. She would eye the desks around the classroom, ensuring she was last. Then, she’d pick at her donut again. Her final bite was a declaration of her weekly victory over us. It annoyed me to no end.

One day, I had enough. I picked out my donut as usual and then brought it to my seat. I started to wolf it down but caught myself and took a small bite instead. Then I stopped. Instead of leaving it on my napkin, I put it on my lap under my desk. I sat and waited. One by one, others around me finished eating their donuts.

Nicole restarted eating her donut. She looked smug as she chewed her last bite and wiped her mouth.

I marked a full minute. Then I put my donut back on my desk and held my hands in my lap.

I waited.

Finally, she glanced in my direction. I saw her eyes get a little bit bigger. I smiled at her in triumph. I took my second bite. She looked away with a frown.

It really did taste better when you didn’t gobble it up. Any victory in my life, no matter how small, made me feel I had mastered control over a part of my life.

Learn more about Shanti by clicking on her bio: https://thievingmagpie.org/shanti-ariker-bio/